


Polish Them Rockets, Swallow Those Pills

by xenokattz



Series: Space Lords and Purple Butterflies [1]
Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: All the swearing, Darcyisms, F/M, Hurts So Good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-16
Updated: 2012-05-16
Packaged: 2017-11-05 11:58:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/406151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xenokattz/pseuds/xenokattz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Darcy rolls over, the dent on his pillow is still warm and she inhales the remnants of his scent before she remembers she doesn't care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Polish Them Rockets, Swallow Those Pills

When Darcy rolls over, the dent on his pillow is still warm and she inhales the remnants of his scent before she remembers she doesn't care. She slides her arm away from that side of the bed and places it on her belly instead. Her bones are still loose from sex with certain joints just this side of sore. Her phone displays the time in a muted grey. Just after four in the morning. Darcy figures she's officially an adult now 'cause she can't just go back to bed and sleep for another six hours.

She slips out of bed. It takes two whole steps to move from her "bedroom niche" to the rest of the bachelor suite. Clint is at the dining table, packing his gear. "You forgot your knife from last time," she says. "I've been using it to cook. It slices through tomatoes like a motherfucker."

He almost looks up from his duffel. "Keep it. I got plenty."

She will. It's a great cooking knife, par for the course with the whole "Property of the FSB" stamped all over it. She totes murdered an avocado with it yesterday, tearing right through the slippery skin of the pit. The flesh tasted kind of bitter on her sandwich but, fuck it, Darcy was a starving grad student and if she could eat ketchup soup, she could sure as hell eat slightly-off guacamole.

"So I was thinking about next time," she says.

"We're doing that now?"

"I defend in three weeks. Gotta batten down the hatches and all the shit so I don't completely fail in front of the committee."

Clint pauses for half a breath. Darcy only knows this because she's watching him like a hawk--ha!-- for any type of reaction and WOW, if that's not the final nail in this hedonistic coffin, ain't nothing was. "I won't come around 'til after."

"I was more thinking not coming around, period. Like, let's break this off at a high point, y'know?"

"If that's what you want."

That's not what she wants but what Darcy wants and what's good for Darcy's sanity are two entirely different things living on entirely different area codes, one in Fuckupistan and the other in the Commonwealth of Screwitall. And yeah, the sex is good, as is the lack of emotional commitment at a time when all her emotions are tied up in academia and student loans but that doesn’t mean she doesn't want what Jane has a few years down the road. She legit cried at Jane and Thor's wedding, okay? That shit was real.

"Sure. It's been fun and all." Darcy sticks her hand out. Very grown up, she thinks. Especially the part where she doesn't tear up, or cling to Clint's neck, or throw his gear out the window where it would undoubtedly hit some unsuspecting rich man's son who'd use Daddy's influence to successfully sue the Avengers bankrupt, leaving Clint nowhere to go except be naked in her bed forever with rose petals and shit. Darcy loved roses before.

Clint stares at her hand. "Fun."

Her voice almost hitches. "Hey, I know I didn't have thirty-one different ways to rock your world before we met but I'm nothing if not an enthusiastic learner so, fuck you, I am fucking amazeballs at sex now. LMK if Thor has a non-homicidal relative visiting, 'cause Imma be grabby hands on that."

He snorts. "You're not even going to wait until I'm out the door. Nice." He hitches the duffel on his shoulder. He hasn't met her eyes throughout the entire conversation. Asshole. There's a hole in a donkey and it looks like Clint Muthafuqqah Barton.

"I let your Widow-shaped baggage all over my clean sheets, Barton. I'm in the Wiktionary for 'nice.'"

Now he lifts his head. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Crap. Darcy tightens her lips as she walks back to bed. "Nothing. It means it's late-- or early or whatever-- and I'm precaffienated and stressed because I might not actually know jack shit about international policy with regard to extralegal militia and--"

He grabs her wrist and hauls her up to his body. "I don't have baggage."

"I don't have double-D cups. One of us is lying."

"You're not--" He exhales. Darcy tries not to feel nostalgic about the scent of his toothpaste. His hand slides from her wrist to around her waist. There's a dull thunk, Darcy registers his duffel on the floor, and then Clint has his other hand around her, rubbing circles on her back. She lets her forehead rest on his shoulder. He smells like sweat because her place only has a fan, ozone because the last mission involved bailing out of the Quinjet at high altitude, and her soap because he never packs his own damn soap. He shoves his face in her hair, nibbling on her ear just the way he knows makes her bits all melty and sizzling, and she knows where this is going to lead. Right back in Fuckupistan, population: her own damn, sorry self.

"Clint."

"Shhh, baby." He lifts her up on the table and spreads her knees wide. The soreness between her thighs is nothing compared to the things he can do with his mouth on her breasts.

Darcy put a hand on his shoulder to push him off. She thinks. "Clint, come on."

He slides down on his knees, his lips at her belly.

"Clint."

"Make me stop, Darcy, baby. Just say it. I'll stop."

One ticket to Fuckupistan, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars. Darcy curls around him, echoing his moan as she presses herself on his chin. He slides his tongue into her-- she hadn't pulled her panties on when she got out of bed-- and Darcy arches back, one hand scrabbling for the table, the other sliding through the damp spikes of his hair. Her knees are on his shoulders and he reaches up to pluck at her nipples, tugging and rolling, hard enough to sting so good. She rides his face and his goddamn fantastic tongue through two orgasms before he finally shucks his pants and fucks her into next week. He's lost it. Darcy knows he's lost it because his eyes are closed and his hips lose rhythm once in a while, and she watches him fall apart for the second time ever in the two years they've been setting fire to the sheets. She comes again and she doesn't know if it's because of his dick or his feelings.

When he gets his breath back, the moment's gone. Darcy shivers, aftershocks. He pulls out, head down, mumbling an apology as he tugs his pants back on.

"Forget about it," she says. She wishes she had pants to put on. She settles for crossing her legs on the table and fucking owning her half-dressed status. "Consider this proof that we should end this."

"We just had mind-blowing sex in under ten minutes and you consider it a reason to end things?"

"I have layers."

Clint picks up his duffel again. He lifts his chin so his eyes meet hers. "I don't think about her. When I'm with you."

"I know. But... but I think next time, I want someone who also thinks about me even when he's not with me."

"Baby, I--" He wags his head and holds his hand out. "I really... I really enjoyed knowing you, Darcy Lewis."

Darcy takes his hand. "Of course you did. I'm awesome."

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Space Lord" by Monster Magnet which became Clint Barton's theme song in my corner of reality.


End file.
